


Of Bows and Blacksmiths

by Hiver_Frost_Elf



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Archery, Avlor and Dorthe are precious, Blacksmithing, Family, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nonbinary Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, and Dorthe is one of the few not orphaned nice kids in Skyrim, not of Dorthe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Frost_Elf/pseuds/Hiver_Frost_Elf
Summary: The Dragonborn laments losing an Elven bow.(a one-chapter story, but each "chapter" has the Dragonborn using different pronouns.  I've got a chapter where the Dragonborn uses he/him, a chapter using she/her, and a chapter using they/them.  If there are any other pronouns you'd like the Dragonborn to use, feel free to request some.)
Relationships: Alvor & Dorthe, Alvor & Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Kudos: 3





	1. Dragonborn uses he/him pronouns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by events that happened to my Dragonborn and the sweet, little interactions between Alvor and Dorthe.
> 
> Dúathel just means "dark elf" in Sindarin (one of the Elvish languages from Lord of the Rings). I didn't have prepared upon starting this new file, and I was steeped in LotR fic at the time, so I just went with that.
> 
> The racism happens off-screen. More details in the end notes.

Currently, Dúathel was lugging around a piece of junk. More of a branch than a bow. A damn Draugr had shouted his real bow—an Elven bow—apart during his last dungeon dive. He’d snatched it up as soon as he’d seen it on a grubby-handed bandit. He’d shined it up and strung it anew, held it at night, and now it was gone!

Finding an Imperial bow outside the dungeon had added insult to injury. The bowstring had snapped five times in as many hours, the grip was splintered in exactly the places where his fingers would wrap around it, and some Stormcloaks had attacked him on the road when they saw the damn thing on his back.

But he was in Riverwood at last, and he’d soon be rid of it. He didn’t care that it wouldn’t fetch much coin, he just wanted it gone. The damn thing was cursed! He wanted to mourn his Elven bow in peace, then to swing by Breezehome and draft his Dwarven bow back into action.

It was an Imperial thing, but it was wood, and Alvor liked the “simple stuff”. There was nothing complicated about a bunch of Nords seeing an Elf with their foe’s weapon and judging him an enemy. If nothing else, Alvor could toss it into the forge or a fireplace.

He could probably sell it to Lucan, too, but Lucan and Camilla would want to thank him for bringing back the golden claw again, and he just wanted to get rid of that splintered trash and convert the money to a bed and a drink at the inn.

One of Skyrim’s precious few non-orphan non-brats was at the forge again. Dúathel couldn’t remember her name, but she was Alvor’s kid alright. The last time he’d seen her, she’d wanted her turn at the forge. Alvor had told her that she needed a few more years. The kid wasn’t happy to wait, but she was content. Dúathel had marked down the interaction as positive and forgot all about it until then.

"You really think I can be a blacksmith someday, Papa? As good as Eorlund Gray-Mane? Or maybe... even as good as you?"

“Oh, I know it!” Alvor said. “You keep working hard, like you've been doing, and you could be the greatest blacksmith Skyrim has ever seen."

She giggled, “Thanks, Papa."

She’d said hello to Dúathel as she’d passed by to leave, presumably for home or wherever she played. Dúathel wondered why she was an irregularity rather than the norm amongst Skyrim children with living and loving parents…

“And what can I do for you, my boy?” Alvor smiled while grinding away at the tanning bed.

Dúathel was happy his eyes were as dark as his skin. Maybe Alvor wouldn’t see that he’d flinched.

“I need to get rid of this yesterday,” Dúathel said.

Alvor rose and examined the bow, “Not too shabby. Enchanted, too. I can fetch you some coin for this. But then you’d be without a bow.”

“I don’t care, just get it out of my sight!” Dúathel all but hissed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry...”

“The fault is mine. I should’ve known something was wrong when you had this instead of your fancy Elven treasure,” Alvor patted Dúathel’s shoulder before going to fetch that coin. Dúathel couldn’t help but watch Alvor’s hand.

Dúathel tapped his foot. His eyes landed on the smelter and the forge. Theoretically, he could forge his own bow, but he wasn’t skilled enough to work with the required materials yet, and Alvor had taught him all he could. Alvor didn’t work with the “fancy stuff” anyway. Strictly wood and iron for him.

“Now, I know I said I’d bring you coin, but I think you might like this better,” Alvor said, holding an Elven bow in hand.

Dúathel made surprised noises.

“You can’t!” Dúathel said. “That thing was enchanted, but you’d easily get twice as much for this!”

“Not as easily as you think, actually,” Alvor laughed. “We’re all a bit too Nordic around here for such a thing.”

“I see,” somehow, Dúathel wasn’t surprised.

“You’ll be doing me a favor. That bow, I can sell. This one… Well, a fancy bow ought to have a fancy bowman, yeah?”

“Yeah… thank you,” Dúathel held it reverently in his hands, and before he knew it, more words were stumbling out of his mouth before he could lock them up. “Skyrim’s got a lot of problems, but you’re not one of them. I wish my—more parents could be like you.”

Dúathel felt like he’d stepped on a frost rune. Alvor gave him a funny, affectionate look before Dúathel fled straight out of town. No way could he stay at the Sleeping Giant after that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our very much not human (specifically, Dunmer) Dragonborn is carrying around an Imperial bow, and some Stormcloaks mistake him for an Imperial soldier. Later, Alvor laments that it's damn near impossible to sell Elven bows, likely due to Nordic hostility against Elves.
> 
> Thanks for taking time to read this; enjoy what you do here and everywhere!


	2. Dragonborn uses she/her pronouns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by events that happened to my Dragonborn and the sweet, little interactions between Alvor and Dorthe.
> 
> I think I got all the pronouns, but let me know if I missed any. (I wrote the he/him version first, copied the file, and manually replaced the pronouns to create this version and the they/them version).
> 
> Dúathel just means "dark elf" in Sindarin (one of the Elvish languages from Lord of the Rings). I didn't have prepared upon starting this new file, and I was steeped in LotR fic at the time, so I just went with that.
> 
> The racism happens off-screen. More details in the end notes.

Currently, Dúathel was lugging around a piece of junk. More of a branch than a bow. A damn Draugr had shouted her real bow—an Elven bow—apart during her last dungeon dive. She’d snatched it up as soon as she’d seen it on a grubby-handed bandit. She’d shined it up and strung it anew, held it at night, and now it was gone!

Finding an Imperial bow outside the dungeon had added insult to injury. The bowstring had snapped five times in as many hours, the grip was splintered in exactly the places where her fingers would wrap around it, and some Stormcloaks had attacked her on the road when they saw the damn thing on his back.

But she was in Riverwood at last, and she’d soon be rid of it. She didn’t care that it wouldn’t fetch much coin, she just wanted it gone. The damn thing was cursed! She wanted to mourn her Elven bow in peace, then to swing by Breezehome and draft her Dwarven bow back into action.

It was an Imperial thing, but it was wood, and Alvor liked the “simple stuff”. There was nothing complicated about a bunch of Nords seeing an Elf with their foe’s weapon and judging her an enemy. If nothing else, Alvor could toss it into the forge or a fireplace.

She could probably sell it to Lucan, too, but Lucan and Camilla would want to thank her for bringing back the golden claw again, and she just wanted to get rid of that splintered trash and convert the money to a bed and a drink at the inn.

One of Skyrim’s precious few not orphaned non-brats was at the forge again. Dúathel couldn’t remember her name, but she was Alvor’s kid alright. The last time she’d seen her, she’d wanted her turn at the forge. Alvor had told her that she needed a few more years. The kid wasn’t happy to wait, but she was content. Dúathel had marked down the interaction as positive and forgot all about it until then.

"You really think I can be a blacksmith someday, Papa? As good as Eorlund Gray-Mane? Or maybe... even as good as you?"

“Oh, I know it!” Alvor said. “You keep working hard, like you've been doing, and you could be the greatest blacksmith Skyrim has ever seen."

She giggled, “Thanks, Papa."

She’d said hello to Dúathel as she’d passed by to leave, presumably for home or wherever she played. Dúathel wondered why she was an irregularity rather than the norm amongst Skyrim children with living and loving parents…

“And what can I do for you, lass?” Alvor smiled while grinding away at the tanning bed.

Dúathel was happy her eyes were as dark as her skin. Maybe Alvor wouldn’t see that she’d flinched.

“I need to get rid of this yesterday,” Dúathel said.

Alvor rose and examined the bow, “Not too shabby. Enchanted, too. I can fetch you some coin for this. But then you’d be without a bow.”

“I don’t care, just get it out of my sight!” Dúathel all but hissed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry...”

“The fault is mine. I should’ve known something was wrong when you had this instead of your fancy Elven treasure,” Alvor patted her shoulder before going to fetch that coin. Dúathel couldn’t help but watch Alvor’s hand.

Dúathel tapped her foot. Her eyes landed on the smelter and the forge. Theoretically, she could forge her own bow, but she wasn’t skilled enough to work with the required materials yet, and Alvor had taught her all he could. Alvor didn’t work with the “fancy stuff” anyway. Strictly wood and iron for him.

“Now, I know I said I’d bring you coin, but I think you might like this better,” Alvor said, holding an Elven bow in hand.

Dúathel made surprised noises.

“You can’t!” Dúathel said. “That thing was enchanted, but you’d easily get twice as much for this!”

“Not as easily as you think, actually,” Alvor laughed. “We’re all a bit too Nordic around here for such a thing.”

“I see,” somehow, Dúathel wasn’t surprised.

“You’ll be doing me a favor. That bow, I can sell. This one… Well, a fancy bow ought to have a fancy archer, yeah?”

“Yeah… thank you,” Dúathel held it reverently in her hands, and before she knew it, more words were stumbling out of her mouth before she could lock them up. “Skyrim’s got a lot of problems, but you’re not one of them. I wish my—more parents could be like you.”

Dúathel felt like she’d stepped on a frost rune. Alvor gave her a funny, affectionate look before Dúathel fled straight out of town. No way could she stay at the Sleeping Giant after that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our very much not human (specifically, Dunmer) Dragonborn is carrying around an Imperial bow, and some Stormcloaks mistake her for an Imperial soldier. Later, Alvor laments that it's damn near impossible to sell Elven bows, likely due to Nordic hostility against Elves.
> 
> Thanks for taking time to read this; enjoy what you do here and everywhere!


	3. Dragonborn uses they/them pronouns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by events that happened to my Dragonborn and the sweet, little interactions between Alvor and Dorthe.
> 
> I think I got all the pronouns, but let me know if I missed any. (I wrote the he/him version first, copied the file, and manually replaced the pronouns to create the she/her version and then repeated to create this version).
> 
> Dúathel just means "dark elf" in Sindarin (one of the Elvish languages from Lord of the Rings). I didn't have prepared upon starting this new file, and I was steeped in LotR fic at the time, so I just went with that.
> 
> The racism happens off-screen. More details in the end notes.

Currently, Dúathel was lugging around a piece of junk. More of a branch than a bow. A damn Draugr had shouted their real bow—an Elven bow—apart during their last dungeon dive. They’d snatched it up as soon as they’d seen it on a grubby-handed bandit. They’d shined it up and strung it anew, held it at night, and now it was gone!

Finding an Imperial bow outside the dungeon had added insult to injury. The bowstring had snapped five times in as many hours, the grip was splintered in exactly the places where their fingers would wrap around it, and some Stormcloaks had attacked them on the road when they saw the damn thing on their back.

But they were in Riverwood at last, and they'd soon be rid of it. They didn’t care that it wouldn’t fetch much coin, they just wanted it gone. The damn thing was cursed! They wanted to mourn their Elven bow in peace, then to swing by Breezehome and draft their Dwarven bow back into action.

It was an Imperial thing, but it was wood, and Alvor liked the “simple stuff”. There was nothing complicated about a bunch of Nords seeing an Elf with their foe’s weapon and judging them an enemy. If nothing else, Alvor could toss it into the forge or a fireplace.

They could probably sell it to Lucan, too, but Lucan and Camilla would want to thank them for bringing back the golden claw again, and they just wanted to get rid of that splintered trash and convert the money to a bed and a drink at the inn.

One of Skyrim’s precious few not orphaned non-brats was at the forge again. Dúathel couldn’t remember her name, but she was Alvor’s kid alright. The last time they'd seen her, she’d wanted her turn at the forge. Alvor had told her that she needed a few more years. The kid wasn’t happy to wait, but she was content. Dúathel had marked down the interaction as positive and forgot all about it until then.

"You really think I can be a blacksmith someday, Papa? As good as Eorlund Gray-Mane? Or maybe... even as good as you?"

“Oh, I know it!” Alvor said. “You keep working hard, like you've been doing, and you could be the greatest blacksmith Skyrim has ever seen."

She giggled, “Thanks, Papa."

She’d said hello to Dúathel as she’d passed by to leave, presumably for home or wherever she played. Dúathel wondered why she was an irregularity rather than the norm amongst Skyrim children with living and loving parents…

“And what can I do for you, my friend?” Alvor smiled while grinding away at the tanning bed.

Dúathel was happy their eyes were as dark as their skin. Maybe Alvor wouldn’t see that they’d flinched.

“I need to get rid of this yesterday,” Dúathel said.

Alvor rose and examined the bow, “Not too shabby. Enchanted, too. I can fetch you some coin for this. But then you’d be without a bow.”

“I don’t care, just get it out of my sight!” Dúathel all but hissed. They closed their eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry...”

“The fault is mine. I should’ve known something was wrong when you had this instead of your fancy Elven treasure,” Alvor patted their shoulder before going to fetch that coin. Dúathel couldn’t help but watch Alvor’s hand.

Dúathel tapped their foot. Their eyes landed on the smelter and the forge. Theoretically, they could forge their own bow, but they weren’t skilled enough to work with the required materials yet, and Alvor had taught them all he could. Alvor didn’t work with the “fancy stuff” anyway. Strictly wood and iron for him.

“Now, I know I said I’d bring you coin, but I think you might like this better,” Alvor said, holding an Elven bow in hand.

Dúathel made surprised noises.

“You can’t!” Dúathel said. “That thing was enchanted, but you’d easily get twice as much for this!”

“Not as easily as you think, actually,” Alvor laughed. “We’re all a bit too Nordic around here for such a thing.”

“I see,” somehow, Dúathel wasn’t surprised.

“You’ll be doing me a favor. That bow, I can sell. This one… Well, a fancy bow ought to have a fancy archer, yeah?”

“Yeah… thank you,” Dúathel held it reverently in their hands, and before they knew it, more words were stumbling out of their mouth before they could lock them up. “Skyrim’s got a lot of problems, but you’re not one of them. I wish my—more parents could be like you.”

Dúathel felt like they’d stepped on a frost rune. Alvor gave them a funny, affectionate look before Dúathel fled straight out of town. No way could they stay at the Sleeping Giant after that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So our very much not human (specifically, Dunmer) Dragonborn is carrying around an Imperial bow, and some Stormcloaks mistake them for an Imperial soldier. Later, Alvor laments that it's damn near impossible to sell Elven bows, likely due to Nordic hostility against Elves.
> 
> Thanks for taking time to read this; enjoy what you do here and everywhere!


End file.
